Fire Burning

Photography & Desire

Photography was the last class of the day, but it didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like something just starting.

The room was tucked near the back of the art wing, half-hidden past a set of painted lockers and a hall that smelled faintly like clay and turpentine. I stepped in slowly, letting the quiet hit me.

It was beautiful in its own kind of mess. Light spilled in from tall windows, cutting soft lines across cluttered tables. Finished and unfinished prints lined the walls—black and white landscapes, portraits, abstract close-ups of eyes and skin and rain on glass. The darkroom was tucked in the back corner, a glowing red “In Use” sign above its half-open door.

I slid into a seat near the middle, setting my portfolio on the table.

Riley appeared moments later, quiet as a shadow, and without asking, he took the chair beside mine.

"Third time’s the charm," he said with a small grin.

I glanced over. "Starting to feel like fate."

He chuckled softly. "I don’t hate it."

Before I could answer, the teacher stepped to the front of the room. She looked like she belonged in a coffeehouse or a poetry club—loose curls pinned up, wide-leg jeans flecked with paint, layered necklaces catching the light. A camera rested on the table beside her.

"Hi," she said, voice warm but grounded. "I’m Ms. Winslow. This is my third year teaching here, and my tenth year doing photography professionally. I tend to give more freedom than rules, and I believe art comes from emotion before it ever comes from technique. If that bothers you, you may want to transfer."

A few students laughed. She didn’t.

"Before we jump in, I want you to get to know the person next to you. Just your name, what kind of photography you like, and one photo that meant something to you—either one you’ve taken or one you’ve seen."

Riley turned toward me, a grin already forming. "Hi, I’m Riley. I enjoy long walks through abandoned buildings, photographing emotionally damaged architecture, and pretending I don’t know you."

I snorted. "Nice to meet you. I’m Emery. I specialize in emotionally damaged people. And unfortunately, I do know you."

He laughed under his breath, eyes lighting up. "Small world."

"Cursed world," I corrected with a smirk.

We let the joke fade before answering for real. I shrugged. "I like catching moments. Messy ones. Stuff people don’t mean to show."

He nodded. "Street photography, mostly. But I chase the quiet parts of it—the stuff in between. People before they put on the face."

"Sounds about right," I said. "You always were kind of an old soul trapped in a hoodie."

He smirked. "You always were kind of mean for someone who says she likes honesty."

I didn’t say it, but the back-and-forth felt easy. Familiar. Like slipping on an old jacket and finding it still fits.

Ms. Winslow returned to the front of the room. "Alright. Here’s your first official assignment."

The room quieted.

"I want you to choose one photo you’ve taken that still speaks to you. It doesn’t have to be perfect—hell, I’d prefer if it’s not. I want honest. Messy. Something real. You’ll use it to create something new. One final image that continues the story or reframes it entirely. I don’t want pretty. I want truth."

She paused.

"You’ve got two weeks to plan. You’ll present your original photo to the class, explain the story behind it, and share how you plan to reshape it. Sound good?"